


The "Fat" Beatle

by careforacuppatea



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bulimia, Eating Disorders, Gen, John Lennon did suffer with eating disorders/bulimia, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, john deserved the world, life is hard and john deserved better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23144797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/careforacuppatea/pseuds/careforacuppatea
Summary: John Lennon has always been insecure, delving into episodes of self loathing, and believing he is of little worth or value. With fame and mania and the public eye on the boys-- picking them apart, merciless. Well, is it no wonder John would fall into such a filthy, shameful act, which he's found himself addicted.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney, McLennon - Relationship
Comments: 9
Kudos: 63





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know why, but I had the urge to write about this. Maybe it’s because I also suffered, suffer, with bulimia and I just, sympathize, get it. I don’t know, maybe I’m just a masochist who hates angst writing yet can’t help but write it when the thought hits me.  
> This will be in parts, if I decide to continue writing about it. There will be McLennon.

The first time John was found, it was by Brian. Later John would realize it had been his own fault, his own carelessness, which led to Brian thoughtlessly opening the suite’s private bathroom door as it wasn’t locked.

Right as Brian had opened the door, John had gotten the response he wanted from his body from sticking his fingers down his throat– a lurch of his body followed by a strangled, hurting noise escaping him as tonight’s banquet rushed back up and splattered down into the porcelain bowl.

Brian stood there, frozen, watching for a hot second, eyes wide as his brain tried to process what _exactly_ he was witnessing. John was leaning forward on his knees, head hanging over the toilet bowel, one hand bracing the side as the other had it’s elbow resting on the brim of the bowel, hand hovering, stuttering, near John’s mouth. John’s tie was slung over his shoulder, both sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up to the bends of his arms.

John was breathing hard, raspy, visibly and audibly swallowing. “Ge’ out,” John managed lowly, sounding raw, though the dangerous edge was not missed.

Brian, though, stayed standing, one hand still holding tight to the door-handle, eyes never moving from John. There was obvious residue coating the fingers still hovering, slick, discolored. It made Brian’s stomach clench. Brian licked his lips before parting them, not realizing he had been holding in air till he breathed out gently, “John–”

John’s head turned as fast as a whip, his eyes, watery and bloodshot, glaring up to meet Brian’s, and all Brian could see was a dark swirling of rage and pure _shame_.   
“GET. _**OUT**_!” John bellowed, though as painful as that may have been, it only made the anger in his voice more prominent, lips curling to show his teeth. Brian jumped, mouth snapping shut, eyes still wide; without another glance or word, Brian was doubling back fast, shutting the door firmly as he left.

When Brian returned to the little after party down in the lobby, the man tried his best to go back to acting as if everything was fine, that he hadn’t just caught John– caught John… Brian grimaced, though hiding it as he brought a champagne glass to his lips. _No, surely not, couldn’t be. Why would he?_ Brian thought, swallowing the bitter drink down, giving him an excuse to grimace and let his lips turn into a tight-lipped frown. _John wasn’t some girl, why would John be doing such a thing only silly girls did?_

When Brian was being pulled from his thoughts, it was because of Paul, whom appeared besides him, asking something in Brian’s ear which the older man hadn’t caught. “Say again?” Brian asked, ignoring the noticeable roll of Paul’s eyes before the boy said once more, “You seen John? Seem’d to lose him.”

Brian’s mouth felt dry, and he couldn’t help but take an opportunity to take another mouthful of the champagne before replying. “Mm, no, no I haven’t,” Brian tried to sound honest, wanted too, though with the image of John huddled over the toilet bowel, deep throating his own fingers to only force a foul and dirty liquid from himself, wasn’t making it at all easy. Should he tell Paul? Pull the lad aside and just be straight with him? Why not, Paul was John’s best mate– perhaps Paul knew about this already? No, couldn’t have…

But before Brian could officially make that decision, that move, Paul was being pawed at by a rather giggly and buzzed George, obviously trying to drag Paul with him to show him or introduce him to someone. Paul, only resisting George’s pawing an pulling of his arm at first, turned and said to Brian, “Well, send him my way when ya do.” And then he was being led away.

Brian just stood there, empty champagne glass in hand, blinking stupidly. Brian couldn’t, wouldn’t, and an hour later John would have joined the little party once more, and finding Paul the other two on his own.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Paul almost catches John.

John Lennon, the “fat” Beatle. The Fat Beatle. John Lennon is the fat Beatle.

It echoed and ruptured through John’s mind, shredding up all coherent reasoning and rationality as he threw open the studios restroom door, only to twirl around and violently slam the door shut with both hands. Breathing hard, John eyed the lock of the door, only taking a second before moving his hand over to it and sliding it in place.

Now it was like he was on autopilot, John stumbling back, turning and rushing towards the only stall there. Everything felt _too_ tight, felt as if nothing fit anymore; bloated and just simply _far too full_. Pushing the stall door open with one hand, stumbling forward, John’s other hand was already moving up towards his mouth. The thoughts of _why why why_ kept circulating between his ears– though there was no question as to why he was practically stuffing his fingers into his mouth and jamming them down his throat. Why he had eaten so much this morning? Why? He had been doing so good on his recent diet [ _if periodically starving oneself could be considered a diet_ ]

 _Because you’re weak_ , John thought, falling to his knees in front of the porcelain throne, three fingers now knuckle deep in his own mouth, reaching, _reaching_ to scratch, prod, scratch. Saliva coated his digits, his hand, strings of it running down his arm. 

_Because you’re a weak, fat bastard_ ; thrusting his fingers deeper produced the first tickle and lurch from his stomach, John squeezing his eyes shut from the apparent soreness in his lower stomach, which was probably an effect from John falling into a consistent routine of _binge, vomit, binge, vomit, binge vomit, binge_. John gagged, crouching over the toilet as sweat prickled at his forehead and broke out at the back of his neck. _You deserve this_. Gagging again as he shoved and shoved and shoved, tears appearing at the crinkle of his eyes, raspy and muffled, heavy breathing from his nose sounding far too loud in the little stall.

John didn’t move fast enough, his hand and fingers getting covered in this mornings brekky as he retched down into the ivory white bowl below. Blood rushing in his ears, John couldn’t tell how loud he was being, how loud his gasping for air was before another wave of painful nausea struck, and he was back to convulsing.

It _hurt_ , it hurt enough to cause tears to break free and begin rolling down his hot, ruddy cheeks. _It hurts and you deserve it_ , John could hear himself through the hot rush of blood in his veins. _Embrace the pain you disgusting slag._

And so he did, he embraced the way the muscles in his stomach tensed, and his throat burned as hot bile surged up and spilled past his thin lips, embraced the fact he was a filthy cunt who deserved to have his binging splashed back up at him; embraced the growing soreness in his thighs, the sharp discomfort from his knees pressed hard into the cold tile flooring.

 _Pain was beauty_ , innit it?– didn’t he hear that from Cynthia? Mimi? _Paul?_ Whoever, John didn’t know anything about beauty, certainly wasn’t a beautiful sight, but at this moment, with the burning pull and coil from his stomach as he forced it to empty out _everything_ with the inelegant prodding of fingers at the back of his throat– John felt lighter. His clothes no longer clung to his body, at least not due to his disgusting body, but now just because he had broken out in a sweat from the exertion. It was borderline euphoric. 

When all John could do was dry heave is when he felt the most satisfied with himself, if not in the most pain too; with nothing left inside him, not even bile, the soreness in his lower gut became more like a sharp and dragged out, with every gasp over the toilet. “’kay, mkay,” John found himself stuttering out, repeating, as he tried to calm himself, get his body to stop and still. Straightening up, bracing his hands on the seat of the toilet for support, John continue muttering little words of comfort to himself, swallowing heavy, his mouth feeling like cotton. His throat _burned_ , felt as if sandpaper had been shoved down it– with every swallow it seemed to both sooth and irritate it. It took a lot more effort than John would like to admit to bring his arm up and flush the toilet; he couldn’t help but watch the swirl of his misery and shame be flushed away, almost in fascination. Replaced with clear water, as if it had never happened.

After a quiet moment of long, deep breaths, loud swallowing, coughing– John brought a hand up, and with the sleeve of his dress shirt, like a child, wiped away at the lines of tears down his cheeks. Falling back to rest on the back of his calves, John took a moment to rub at both eyes, pressing the heel of his palm into them, relishing in the pressure applied, and when released, the dizzying reshaping of his eyes sending sparks and colors and shadows mangled his vision. 

The other hand was left on the toilet’s brim, coated in drying remnants of what he had just done. It was grody, straight up, John grimacing as reality was setting in around him; the whole scene was fucking gross, always was. John’s blood was still hot and rushing just below the skin, a film of sweat produced down his body, leaving him feeling sticky. It smelled, bad, as it would, and John realized that not only was he going to leave the little studio bathroom smelling of his misdeed, but he himself might smell like it when he heads back out. 

Then John notices it, and a panicked thrill shot through his body; of _course_ he’s going to smell like it, not only did his hand get caught in the mess, but he hadn’t rolled his sleeves up. The cuff and edge was stained with what John knew was from the culprit at hand [he’d laugh about that later] and reeked of it too. 

It was moments like this when John really seemed to reevaluate his life choices; on the floor of a bathroom, clean floor of not didn’t matter anymore, always one hand painted in once was his stomachs content, foul smelling– sometimes adding to the putrid air of what bathroom he had to use [’’had’’ John didn’t _have_ to do this, and yet]; mouth wet, slick with sick– sometimes his chin too, if it was a particularly violent episode. Leaning over a porcelain toilet, or resting against the wall, or just left sitting right by the toilet, like right now. 

He knows he looks like shit, too– even if he feels satisfied, lighter, John knows what he’ll see in the bathrooms’ mirrors. Sweaty and pallid, a noticeable red rimmed gaze, with noticeable bloodshot eyes, or at least red from the tears often pushed out with this sort of _thing_. Hair often flopped over his forehead, fitting the downtrodden and low point of John’s feelings after forcing himself to puke his guts out, like, like– _like some girl!_

John would have continued sitting there, ignoring the pins and needles starting from his feet and making their way up his to his knees, lost in thought and the moments of self awareness that came up almost every time he did this. He would have, if not for the distant sound of thudding, thumping, like knocking, breaking him out of it. Blinking rapidly for a hot second, John craned his neck to be able to glance behind him, as his stall door was left ajar, and as his eyes met the bathrooms door, it quacked from somebody on the other side, who was beating at it.

Then a voice followed the heavy pounding, and when John recognized it, he felt another shock-wave of panic roll through him. “John!” _Shit_. 

John felt caught, even before he has been officially caught; panic followed by fear and utter shame, crawling and ripping at his insides. “Ah–” John breathed out, loud, obviously enough to be picked up by the individual on the outside. “John?” the voice called back in question, then they were knocking at the door again. John had no choice but to go on autopilot, _again_. 

Scrambling up, John hissed and stumbled as his legs felt like dead weights, as if static had replaced his muscles. Again, the door shook, the voice on the other side sounding a mixture of growing concern and growing impatience; “John? _John??_ ”

Irritation surged through John; _can’t a guy get some bloody privacy?_ “What? What!” his voice sounded awful, scratchy and broken, and John couldn’t help but cough– _hacking_ really– still struggling to get his useless fucking legs to _move_ and his feet to just accept the fact they were gonna have to walk on pins and needles. He felt as if he was a toddler learning how to walk, and with standing up so quickly added to this a dizzying feeling, the world exploding in black fireworks across his vision. Left him leaning against the stall wall, squeezing his eyes shut and giving his head a slight shake. 

Once the world stopped tilting and the dark fireworks were no more threatening to obscure his entire sight, he forced himself to move, shoulder the stall door to swing open, and rounded to head towards the sink. 

“John.” 

“ _Paul_.” John tried his best to keep the biting out of his voice, wincing at how gritty Paul’s name sounded when he spoke it. John had to be honest, that what he had been doing was not only leaving his stomach sore and irritable each time he did this, but it was also doing some damage to his throat. Not good, since he had noticed his throat was becoming quicker to irritate and tire lately, with singing. Perhaps the others hadn’t noticed it yet, but if John wasn’t careful about his _little thing_ he does now, they will. Bad enough Brian had caught him once. 

At the sink, using his clean hand John twisted both knobs, and with no real thought, pushed his sleeves up to bunch up at his elbows, before getting to work with the soap and lovely water beginning to steam. With the loud rush of running water ricocheting about the bathroom, and the thick wooden door, Paul’s voice was not only muffled, but being lost between the sound of water and scrubbing hands and rinsing and repeating. 

“Eh?” John called over it, pausing to bring the infected hand up and take a whiff, pausing for a second to decide if whether or not he could pick up anything, of what he had just done. The voice on the other side, while increasing in volume, also sounded rather squished– perhaps because Paul had his face pressed up against the door, probably looking exasperated, which the image made the edge of John’s mouth quirk. “I _said_ , you git– why’s the door locked?” 

Pleased with his hands, rubbed raw and would have probably impressed Mimi greatly, John then moved to splashing water up onto his face, wiping at the sweat collected at his hairline, unconcerned with the fact he was soaking the hair at the front. “Why _wouldn’t_ the bathroom door be locked, Paul?” John shot back, pleased with the fact his voice was slowly returning back to him. While he hadn’t been able to pick it up, John knew Paul had probably huffed at that. “Specifically when in use, ya know, don’t need people bargin’ in an me gettin’ caught half naked on the bog–” “Right! _ha ha_ , I get it.” 

John couldn’t help the curling of a pleased smile, imaging Paul rolling his eyes, throwing his head to flick the dark hair about with attitude. “But why _this_ door? I know there’s a stall in there, you know, with it’s own lockable door,” Paul pressed through the wooden door, making John feel pressed into a corner. 

Once again, John dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, pressing them deep into their sockets, ignoring the pain for the pleasure– or maybe ignoring the relief for the pain? “Because, Paul, I knew I’d need _two_ doors to keep you from comin’ in ‘ere to catch a sight of me with me trousers down,” John couldn’t keep the smile from his voice, and certainly couldn’t keep the bark of laughter when he heard a thud against the door, almost like Paul had gently headbutted it. 

John scrubbed his hands down his face, one dropping to rest on the edge of the sink while the other snaked it’s way around to rubbed at the back of his neck and the base of his skull. The cooling water on his hand felt good against the warm and sweaty skin. The door shook again, gathering John’s attention back to it, eyeing it from the mirror, refusing to meet his own reflection yet. “Act like all the years we’ve known each other, _had_ t’share the same bed together, that I hadn’t already seen you with your trousers _and_ underwear down around yer ankles–” John could practically hear Paul fighting back his own damnable smile, trying to sound unimpressed and not at all amused by this little banter they were having through a bleedin’ door. “So your concern is for _naught_ , as it wouldn’t be anything new for me to see.” 

John, still not meeting himself in the mirror, moved to grab some paper towels, work on drying himself off. “Aye, but still a sight to see?” 

A beat, Paul biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from breathing out laughter; “I mean… _eh~_ ” 

“ _Oi_!” John snapped, though there was no real bite behind it. Paul finally laughed, light– causing a different sort of squirming deep down, like butterflies or a like a flower unfurling inside the pit of John’s stomach. 

A quiet moment passed, then more shifting behind the door, “Care to unlock this bloody door then?” the voice was pressed through the wood again, and while still holding some of that laughter in his voice, overall it was serious. With dry hands, John ripped some more paper towels to begin gently drying his face, neck, wherever the water had splashed, ran down, and soaked. “Johnny?”

John moved himself in front of the sink again, and slowly blinking, gazed up into the mirror. Well, could’ve been worse, John thought; his eyes were indeed a bit bloodshot, and while the hot water splashed up onto his face did return some of the color, John knew he looked off– he _was_ off. Just as John predicted, he looked like shite. 

Patting himself dry, tossing the towel in the bin besides the sink, John moved, acutely shaking hands, to ruffle at his slightly wet fringe. A loud smack against the door, followed by an annoyed and over-it, ‘’ _John_ ,’’ and the older responded in kind, “Alright, alright! Impatient _git_.” Frustrated and tired, John simply abandoned trying to fix his hair, and aggressively, almost like a tantrum, ran his hands through his hair, then turning on his heel, crossed the floor to the bathroom door.

For a moment, John hesitated, taking a calming breath in, a hurried breath out; reaching up, with a quick flick his hand, unlocked the door. 

Stepping back as the heavy door was pushed open, John met with Paul, eyes like magnets; dark-honey peering down an aquiline nose, large pools of hazel unabashedly gazing back. Slowly those doe-eyes broke away from John’s pointed look, searching his face, studying. Always studying. John instantly felt stripped of whatever defense he had, a large lump forming and making him noticeably swallow. Once the lump felt smaller, John forced out, “Alright, Macca?” cutting through the thick silence permeating the space around them. 

John knew his face had color in it now, feeling flushed as Paul’s eyes blinked back up to his, expression unreadable while John felt like an open book. “Smells like sick in here,” Paul said, simply, and John felt like he’d been pushed into freezing water. John replied, almost dumbly, “It’s the loo, Paul, they don’t smell like roses.” A pointed look from Paul and the weak smile on John’s lips withered into something sheepish. 

Paul moved closer, and uncharacteristically, John moved further back, only forcing himself to move back and stand his ground when Paul’s look turned curious, if not a bit suspicious. As Paul came to stand closer, leaving the door to swing shut on it’s own accord, John crossed his arms, a form of subconscious defense from Paul’s scrutiny. Paul copied John’s pose, arms crossed, though head cocked gently to the side, dark locks shifting over his forehead; “Are you ill, like?” 

Fidgeting where he stood, daring to hold Paul’s gaze, despite the fact he knew Paul would catch something in his eyes, tired, scared. John was quick on his feet though, always had been– even though most of the time that quick thinking was mixed with impulse and led to mixed results. 

“Well,” John brought a fist up to his mouth as he coughed into it, averting his eyes to the side, “I was– I was ill.” John gazed back up, chin tucked a bit as if he was a child owning up to doing something naughty, though awfully, awful sorry. Seeing that Paul’s expression softened at that, a grimace of worry drawn out, John couldn’t help but sigh in near relief. “Must’a been somethin’ wrong with me eggs, or… Somethin’,” John said, voice trailing off weakly. A little lying never hurt anyone– if anything John was simply stretching the truth, because there had been something wrong with his morning meal– it’d been too much, temptress of the worst kind, leading him to binge and purge. 

“Well, you alright then?” Paul asked, worrying at his bottom lip, “Maybe we should tell Brian and Martin that you’ve just made sick–” “Ah, no, _no,_ that’s, that’s not necessary,” John rushed out, bringing his hands up to wave shortly in front of his chest, causing Paul to startle.

The last thing John wanted was Paul to notify Brian and Martin [note: _specifically_ Brian] that he’d found John sick, in a bathroom reeking of vomit. Because then Brian would look over at John and give him that face, that face with _those_ eyes that _knew_ , knew John’s dirty, filthy, disgusting little secret. John didn’t need that right now. 

“Alright, alright– are you _sure_ you’re alright?” Paul pressed once more, quirking an eyebrow; “Like, truly?”  
Truly? Well, no, John hasn’t felt truly alright for some time– well, long enough that John can’t recall the last time he was truly alright, alright with himself. But a little lying never hurt anyone. 

Flashing one of his silly little grins, John loosely nodded, “Yes _dear one_ , I’m fine.” Paul shot John a look, though that only made the grin become authentic, watching his mate’s cheeks flush a lovely pink, highlighting the little sun-kissed freckles. John knew he was gazing back at Paul far too fondly, and Paul’s peeved look has crumbled and, if John knew better, seemed to be looked back with just as much fondness for him. Paul broke the trance-like stare they often fell trap to, one hand reaching out, loosely grasping at one of John’s forearms and gingerly tugging forward, him taking a couple steps backwards. “Right, come along _darling_ ,” Paul said, coloring the last word in exaggerated Scouse; while John knew Paul was joking, just teasing amongst friends, he couldn’t ignore the way his stomach fluttered, especially with Paul’s eyes full of mischief and that full bottom lip caught between teeth. 

What else could John do in response? Well, as if he was still in early secondary school, John pulled one of his many goofy faces, causing Paul to break out in a laugh, then pulling his own face, tongue sticking out– and John couldn’t help but quip, “Cute, Macca, _very_ mature.”  
Paul, mature as ever, mock-mimicked John’s remark, touch dropping from John’s arm as Paul turned to pull the bathroom door. As they left the restroom, heading back, John yearned to just reach out and, and– And, well, John reached out, and instead shoved Paul from behind, causing the younger man to gasp and stumble, near toppling over on himself. While John booked it for the studio, laughing while Paul called after him, _John! John Lennon! You bloody prick!_ , playful-anger in his voice, the sound of Paul’s own fast footfalls echoing along his. 

And for a moment, John forgot, forgot breakfast and guilt and the bathroom and the toilet and the relief and the smell and– he forgot, as he and Paul crashed into the recording studio, Paul basically tackling John from behind and nearly dragging them both to the ground. All limbs and heavy breathing and laughter, so much laughter– while Ringo and George stared on, shooting each other curious glances, but clearly also amused by their two unusual band leaders.

As of right _now_ , maybe, John did feel truly alright. 

A little lying never hurt anyone, anyway.


End file.
